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ZURICH, SWITZERLAND—This was the last place I expected to find myself half naked with a bunch of strangers in public, yet here I was, floating under an azure sky framed by clock towers and church spires, the murmur of an ancient city flowing by, the sun warming my bare breasts.

The pleasure of the Frauenbad, an art nouveau bathing pavilion on the Limmat River, was just the first of many surprises over a four-day trip to Zurich and Gstaad. I expected Switzerland to be boring, rigid, circumspect.

Instead, I found an oasis of surprising sensuality.

I stumbled on the Frauenbad straight off a night flight from Canada, still grimy with travel. By day, the Frauenbad is a women’s swim club, by night a dance bar for both genders. A floating courtyard of snappy blue and white canvas curtains and smooth grey wooden decks, it has a little library of novels and poetry, a coffee counter with chocolate and fresh fruit, and three lanes for swimming — right in the centre of downtown. The clear chill waters of the river rinsed the jet lag from my brain and bones and gave me energy to explore.

At the nearby Fraumunster Cathedral, I was briefly transfixed by the unexpected beauty of Marc Chagall’s famous stained glass windows, then it was outside for a small bite, where a waiter helped redefine my concept of Switzerland. I asked him the name of the delicious spread on my fresh baguette.

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“Butter,” he said.

Butter? Butter doesn’t taste like this, not on any continent I’ve visited. But clearly this is what butter is supposed to taste like. The underlying sensuality of Switzerland came into focus. This is not a country of hedonism and excess, but it is a country ruthlessly dedicated to the orderly pleasure and satisfaction of all five senses.

For example, Zurich has 1,223 public fountains, all gushing clean, drinkable water. Four hundred of those fountains pipe water directly from underground springs. It seemed to me that the taste of each fountain varied slightly; one could be a connoisseur of sweet water in Zurich the way that others are connoisseurs of wine in Paris.

The city has a kind of subtle song. Most cars and trucks are banned from downtown, and residents rely on Toronto-style streetcars to get around. The murmur of casual chatter, splashing fountains, rolling trams, heels clicking on cobblestone and rattling espresso cups form an urban symphony that swells and fades with the day. And then there are the church bells; they chime every 15 minutes across the city and for almost an hour at dusk.

Richard Wagner wrote Tristan und Isolde, his most sensual opera, in a guest house here. The inn is now part of a museum dedicated to non-European art.

A casual comment by a Rietberg Museum guide deepened my own pleasure at viewing fine art. Describing the anonymous artist who made a small chalice in China 5,000 years ago, she said, “Fire was his art.” Suddenly I saw the little black cup as just an echo of the art, and the true art as the instant of the artist’s dance with the divine in the act of creation. That sense lingered at the Kronenhalle Restaurant, where I dined surrounded by original works of Picasso, Chagall, Kandinsky and Matisse, and it lingered still when I returned to the magnificent Widder Hotel.

The hotel, itself, is a work of art; architect Tilla Theus spent 10 years crafting the complex from nine medieval townhouses built over an ancient Roman well. (I couldn’t resist a quick twirl at the bottom of the well, now a tiny, circular, wood-paneled room in the deep basement of the hotel.) Every guest room at the Widder is unique. Mine featured original frescoes from the 15th-Century and casement windows that opened onto the Munzplatz Square. I woke groggy, eyes resting on a cherub sketched six centuries before; half asleep, it was as if I could feel the artist playing with the line of the angel’s fat cheek, feel that moment of inspiration trickling down through time.

The hotel is halfway between the Bahnhoffstrausse, one of the world’s most exclusive shopping destinations, and the Lindenhof, a hilltop park where the city’s gentle, sensual soul is on full display. No larger than Dundas Square, the Lindenhof is a rectangle of pebbled paths shaded by mature linden trees and has a sweeping view of the city.

This is where the gentle soul of Zurich comes to play. Two old men battled on a giant chess board, closely watched by a cadre of groupies; a taiji master engaged a middle-aged pupil in a delicate round of push-hands practice; three children raced up steps, across the fountain and around and around the trees in a game of follow-the-leader; teams of young people threw metal petanque balls on a grid; two cyclists stretched their bulging thighs on a low stone wall; teenaged boys drank beer in the dark, and many couples smooched under the stars.

I left Zurich thinking this easy sensuality was a function of the city; in Gstaad, I realized it is a national trait.

This is why people started coming to this famous Alpine village; it feels good. The air is not just fresh, it is scented by the mountain meadows and forests, and the views in every direction are spectacular.

The region works hard to keep it that way. All buildings must follow a Swiss chalet aesthetic, and huge monster homes are forbidden.

Although best known now as a ski destination, Gstaad was a summer vacation spot before it became a winter haven of the über rich. Today, Gstaad is an odd mixture of jet-setting billionaires and dairy farmers. There are chalets that sell for more than 10 million Swiss francs (about $12 million Canadian) and chalets owned by farmers who plant vegetable gardens in their front yards. There are tight restrictions on foreign ownership of property, because no one wants this town to become just a resort. Even though the village centre is dominated by international luxury brands such as Ralph Lauren, Hermes and Prada, Gstaad still feels like a village — or maybe a club. Up the hill at the venerable Gstaad Palace, more than 80 per cent of the guests are return visitors.

Gstaad is also a “wellness” destination. The town has five full-service spas. It was my luck to have the Jardin des Monts energizing treatment at the Gstaad Palace Spa. Maybe it was the Alpine air, maybe it was all that Swiss chocolate and wine, or maybe it was the expert hands of Leo, my masseuse, but it seemed fitting that my last experience in sensual Switzerland was a massage so relaxing that it actually rendered me unconscious.

Travel and accommodation expenses for Kelly Toughill’s trip were provided by the Widder Hotel and the Gstaad Palace.

If You Go

Enjoy people-watching!

Public parks are a great place to watch the Swiss, as they excel at enjoying simple pleasures

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